Your Favorite Song
by KRenee
Summary: The scent of roses mixed with messy papers filled him with a new lullaby, something that was warmer, and kinder, and sweeter... It's like forgetting the words to your favorite song; you can't believe it, you were always singing along.


**Your Favorite Song**

The wind blew a gentle tune over his face as he lay still on his bed. The scent of blooming white roses, red tulips and wild purples wafted into his nose sweetly. Sasuke was at school; Fugaku – the father - was away on business, probably regarding his most recent bout of rebellion.

If only they knew… They might have a chance.

Mother was in the kitchen; he could hear her humming through the rather thin walls of their home. He heard her pause in the song, and then start over again from the beginning. She had forgotten how the lullaby went.

It had been so long since she'd sung to him…

Itachi closed his eyes, trying hopefully, almost desperately, to remember those days. He knew he wouldn't be able to; memories of being that small were no more, especially since his innocent views of life had been soaked with blood.

Had he ever _had_ innocent views?

He only remembered that the lull she was singing had been his favorite. The words had been so sweet, he couldn't remember how they went. He tried to recall them as his mother sang the tune, but nothing was coming back to him. It was almost infuriating; it was his favorite song, he listened to it often… so why?

He reached up and into the bookcase above his headrest, pulling out a cassette player and a pair of heavy-looking head phones.

A moment later, he was playing the lullaby as loudly as he could in his ears. He tried to shut off his mind, but it was a lot harder than he'd thought. Nevertheless, drowning out his thoughts was much easier.

He could feel his throat buzzing as he hummed in unison with the sound of his mother singing. Occasionally, he would remember a word, or a phrase, and incorporate it into his humming, but not very often.

The song was on repeat; it played again, and again, and again, and he continued to hum along. His deep voice was somehow able to create some kind of harmony with his mother's, one that he could only just barely hear. He opened his eyes, pressing the button that would lower the volume, and sitting up.

He could hear the sound of a small boy crying; for a brief moment, he had thought that it was Sasuke, but after a moment of listening, he realized that it wasn't.

"_Brother! Let me try!"_

"_You're too young. You'll hurt yourself."_

"_You don't even know that! I bet you don't even remember how old I am!"_

Those words, coming back to him with a sharp pang in his heart, had really hurt. Sasuke had snapped that at him, and as he'd said, Itachi had forgotten. He had answered the question – "How old am I?" - A million times, so why had he forgotten that day? It was like forgetting the words to this favorite song he was listening to.

Itachi turned the music back up again. The peace didn't last very long. He heard the sound of his curtains being pulled apart, and opened his eyes again. The older man was hanging over the windowsill, propped up on his forearms. Madara's piercing black eyes bore holes through him, as they always did. The feeling of being stripped naked was crawling over him like a hundred thousand spiders, but he had gotten used to it.

"Are you coming, or what?"

Itachi stared at him for a long moment; a very long, deadly silent moment. The music had been paused, the wind had stopped, and the roses were probably un-blooming as well.

Itachi's face was graced by a slight, pitying smile, "No," he replied, "Not today, Madara."

The older man was slightly surprised, but nonetheless, he chuckled, pushing himself away from the window, "Very well." The curtains were slid shut again. The wind picked up, blowing all of Itachi's homework across the room. The individual papers let out their very own song, a tune Itachi didn't recognize. The organized room that he sometimes prided was now a mess, and to think that only a slight breeze had done it…

The scent of roses mixed with messy papers filled him with a new kind of song, something that was warmer, and kinder, and sweeter.

A song he didn't remember the words to.


End file.
